Whatever Happened
by Red Dragon10
Summary: A story of Draco, the Malfoy's, and all the grey areas of Evil. Eventually DHr. Begins in 6th year.
1. Summer Time

**Whatever Happened **

**Chapter 1- Summer Time**

**Disclaimer- **Obviously, I own nothing but this story-line. The fabulous characters and spells etc. etc. all belong to the brilliant JKR!

**Author's Note:** Weeee! New story! I started about a year ago, left it sit, and am now taking it up again because it's almost summer and the summer is definitely a good time for writing fan fic. Plus, I just saw the third movie, so I'm feeling HP motivated, and I finished my LOTR fic, so I have the time.

To the casual observer, one might think that a king lived within the looming boundaries of the Malfoy Manor, which stood at the top of the highest hill for miles, as proud as its occupants. Of course, in the Malfoy family's opinion, this observation was true enough. No expense had been spared when the castle had been built so many years ago - the wealth of the place was flaunted. It was not in a Malfoy's nature to be modest.

The castle stood tall with its various towers and spires stretching towards the sky. No one (besides the Malfoy's) was quite sure what the actual building material was; it seemed to be a sort of silvery grey stone that was blatantly expensive. An extravagant flight of steps made of the same stone (which always felt curiously warm) led the way to the door, though not before they passed under a rather wicked looking portcullis. The portcullis, nicknamed Mercy, had happily induced many a visitor to hysterical laughter, mad giggles, and finally a sob or two. Coupled with the shockingly real, life-sized dragon statue, which stood silent guard over the grounds, and the ravenous vines, which crawled unceasingly across the stone building and occasionally took a snap at passing unfortunates, people learned to keep their distance. And it was just as well, because the grounds were a friendly playground in comparison to the inner chambers and corridors and great echoing halls.

Upon entering the mansion, an intruder might - or might not, depending on the guards mood that night - be slaughtered by the identical ebony knights who guarded the entrance. Man-eating plants littered the corridors. A flaming sword that appeared to have no bearer hung in mid-air in front of the dungeons. Looming over the dining hall was an ancient statue of Anubis, and it wasn't an uncommon occurrence to find it walking stiffly to and fro in the hall to which it was confined. Confusing spells and Baffling charms riddled the many staircases and dark passageways. None of these things were ever an inconvenience to those who knew the Manor, however.

Those such as Draco Malfoy, who stood practising his already satisfactory sneer before the silver rimmed mirror (who would have beamed proudly at him, had it a mouth). 'You look just _fabulous_, Draco!' it sang adoringly. 'So much like your father...'

Though the mirror was enchanted to compliment any of Malfoy blood, the last statement was true enough, and Draco was proud of it. His sleek blond hair was the same fine texture, the same silvery colour. They were both built like athletes; tall, lithe, _lean_. He had inherited the trademark Malfoy face- pointed and long. The same lips. But not everything was the same. Draco had his mother's eyes; grey like his fathers, but olive-shaped and cat-like and angled up slightly. And Draco had already outgrown his father by several inches. He might even be the tallest boy in Slytherin, aside from Crabbe and Goyle. There was only one thing he yet lacked. For all the gifts and curses he had inherited from his father, he hadn't developed the ability to command fear. _Yet_, he told himself, _it's only a matter of time._

_  
_'Your father is waiting, Draco,' the mirror interrupted lazily, 'in the drawing room, I believe.'

Draco fled the room immediately, willing himself, with some effort, not to run. His father hated to be kept waiting, even more so since his little 'trip' to Azkaban. _Azkaban_. What had gone on there? Scarcely six weeks after being thrown into the dreaded wizard prison, Lucius had broken out, to no one's surprise. But his father had come back...different. Apparently, even without the Dementors, the prison still struck fear in the hearts of all men. In all honesty, Draco wasn't sure he wanted to know what had changed his father. He had never been a brave boy.

Composing himself, Draco veiled all emotions from his face, smoothed his hair for the fifth time since leaving his room, and stepped through the arched doorway of the drawing room. His eyes slid over the voluptuous statue of Evaleen the vampire and the massive marble fireplace (which stood silent and empty), the violent painting of Bruce the Brute and his seven maidens, before finally focusing on the still form of his father - a statue in his own way.

'You're late.' Lucius did not turn from his spot by the window, and his voice was even and controlled. Lately, Draco had a feeling that control was false. His father would rather die than admit any weakness, but Draco had seen the worried looks Narcissa sent his way; seen his father stare unblinkingly at a spot on the wall, or the floor, or the grounds for literally _hours_. He knew well enough not to ask questions, but he simply couldn't imagine what had made his father change. And it wasn't a big change. No one but those who knew him thoroughly would notice anything was 'off '. It wasn't that he seemed shaken or nervous; if anything he seemed sharper, colder, more removed. This vexed Draco. The respect he had always had for his father had wavered considerably since his return from Azkaban. Only six weeks he had been there, and yet here he was, seeming to struggle just to pull off his usual facade of calm. _A shadow of his old self_, Draco thought distastefully. Azkaban or no Azkaban, he hated seeing his father weak, whether he was willing to admit it or not.

'Sorry, Father.'

His father said nothing, but continued to gaze at the grounds far below. Summer drew to its end, but the vibrant green lawns did not betray that fact. Draco had already received his letter from Hogwarts; he would need to be getting to London for his supplies soon.

'You are sixteen,' he said suddenly, and now he did turn, 'and old enough to take on some responsibility. When I was your age, Maximus had me writing for the Daily Prophet, studying with a tutor morning and night - which you have been neglecting, I might add - practising Quidditch daily, and most importantly, learning the finer points of the Dark Arts. I will not have a useless prat for an heir.' Draco lowered his eyes respectfully when Lucius' gaze fell on his own. This routine was not unusual. Questions were sure to follow, as well as a little rant about loyalties and beating Saint Potter in everything, and upholding the family name; if he was unlucky, he might even have to listen to his father lecture on his future life as a Death Eater. Those conversations could go on for hours. Draco tried his best to look interested.

'What sort of responsibility, sir?' Lucius' face brightened considerably, and he leaned towards his son, his eyes sparking maliciously. _There_, Draco thought with a small twinge of relief, _there is the father I know_. He brushed the fact that Lucius looked even pastier than usual, and that his hair was less-than-perfect, off as a simple side effect of having stayed in Azkaban. _And soon those effects will soon be gone as well,_ he concluded confidently.

'The kind you will like, Draco. The challenging kind. The rewarding kind.'

'The dangerous kind,' Draco said softly, knowing exactly the kind his father spoke of. The Dark Lord seemed to find its way into every conversation in their house these last weeks.

'Perhaps.' The falsely pleasant expression did not leave the man's face as he twirled his cane easily, pacing as he did so, but the glint in his eye and the cruel twist of his lips belied his true intentions. Ah, how he adored planning his son's life!

'Certain steps must be taken to ensure none of this becomes known. There are some who might hinder those who strive for power, Draco. Some who might put an end to your progress. But we won't allow that to happen, will we? You are promised to _Him_. I told Him you would be a good servant...you never did have a will of your own...yes, my boy, you will be His and you will serve Him.' This thread of conversation was common enough in the Mafloy house-hold. Draco had become accustomed to after-dinner lectures on becoming a faithful servant to the Dark Lord, and of all the wonderful benefits and rewards of being involved in such work. In Draco's opinion, it seemed a bit submissive for the likes of the Malfoy's, but he never voiced his opinions; no doubt his father knew better than he. Still, this particular day's lecture seemed different.. Like Lucius. It was driven, impassioned, almost...desperate. Lucius did not seem to be speaking to Draco at all; his voice lost its carelessness, his pacing quickened; Draco took a step back to avoid the whirling cane. These were the times he grew most afraid of his father. Always he was the definition of control, but now he walked and talked to himself, an image too close to raving for comfort, and the man that was his idol faded in his madness. Potter would pay for what he had done to the Malfoy family. He would _pay._

_  
_Draco was snapped out of his thoughts by his father's hand, which had latched itself firmly, painfully, around his wrist. Lucius was no longer pacing, but looking right at his son, his eyes narrowed. It was a look that Draco had faced relentlessly since he was a little boy. It was almost comforting.

'Are you paying attention? Don't you know how important this is? I have enough on my mind trying to re-build the family name after this most recent _episode_ and I don't need to baby-sit an insolent child as well!' His voice quieted suddenly, and he seemed once again to regain his calm; he smoothed his hair, and his voice became his trademark drawl. 'Don't do anything stupid, boy. I don't care what that idiot Potter boy says or does. You ignore him like a Malfoy. You _will_ live up to the family name. You _will_ serve Him.' Lucius punctuated each sentence by shaking his son slightly, as if trying to drill the words into his head. _As if I don't know this already_, Draco thought bitterly, _as if you don't tell me every time I'm in your presence._ He stared at the back of his father's hand, which continued to squeeze his wrist. Lucius gave it a last grip.

'I'll do my best, Father.' Draco tried desperately to keep the scorn out of his voice; now was not the time. As much of a whiner as he was, he knew when to shut up.

'Hmmm...' Lucius had at last lost interest again (for he seemed to do that often these days) and he swept past his son for the door, his hand trailing carelessly over the vampire woman's torso.  
'Yes,' he said, without stopping, 'yes, I'm sure you will.'

And so began a typical Malfoy day.

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Life at the Dursley's was no less challenging. Despite Mad-Eye Moody's rather adamant warning, the dislikeable family continued to bother Harry, in one way or another. Not that he really noticed. He drifted through summer holidays detached and cold and absent, and the Dursley's took no notice. They knew nothing of Sirius, or his death, or of how it was effecting Harry, and they wouldn't have cared it they had known. No one knew; except, perhaps, for Dumbledore, who seemed to know everything.   
  
Hermione and Ron didn't know either; not really. Harry received at least a few letters from each of them every week. And he read them, trying to concentrate on the words and silly, unimportant topics his friends rambled on about. They wanted to talk to him. How was he doing? Were the Dursley's all right to him? _Talk_ to us, Harry!

_About what?_ He thought darkly. _Do you want me to tell you all about how Dumbledore isn't as strong as we thought? That he almost broke down in front of me? Or how about how the fact that I wouldn't be opposed to killing one - any - of the Death Eaters that were there that night? Or maybe you'd rather hear me say that we're not going to win this war. We're not. I know it. _

_  
_But of course Harry said none of these things; in fact, he said nothing at all. He hadn't written them all summer. He was going to have to though; he was going to write and say he was coming to Diagon Alley to get his stuff for Hogwarts. And to tell them that he most certainly would not come with them to Number twelve Grimmauld Place. He was never going back there again. Apparently, it was still the 'headquarters' for the Order of the Phoenix, but Harry wanted no part in it, even if Ron and Hermione did.

Harry's thoughts were interrupted by his cousin Dudley's rather large figure barging it's way into his room. Over the past year Dudley had managed to pack a pound or two, or twenty, onto his already porky frame. His thick blond hair was parted flat against his round head as ever, while his beady little eyes darted from side to side as if waiting for some magical monster to leap out of the corner. Harry watched him boredly.

'What do you need, Dudders?' Harry spoke unpleasantly, wishing to drive the annoying plod out of his sight as soon as possible. 'Do be quick about it.' Dudley's eyes finally came to land disdainfully on Harry's form (the room seemed to be monster-free at the moment), which lay sprawled on his too-small bed. His nose wrinkled ever-so-slightly, and his lip curled in a way almost reminiscent of a Malfoy.

'Mum says your to come down and clean up dinner. No use letting you laze about any longer; got to get some work out of you before you slink off to that,' - he gave a little shudder, and Harry amused himself by watching Dudley's chest flab jiggle - 'that _school_ of yours.'

This was an extraordinarily long speech for Dudley, who seemed barely capable of complete sentences, and Harry raised an eyebrow.

'Sure thing, Dinky Duddydums!' Harry sneered, knowing how Dudley hated being called by his 'pet names'. His eyes swept up and down Dudley's rotund shape, and his sneer widened. 'Enjoy your meal, Dudley? Broken any chairs lately?' He got up smoothly and swept passed his cousin, who's face had reached a new shade of purple; he knew he was being cruel, but mercifully, he felt no guilt.

Entering the kitchen, his eyes took in the scene in front of him: the dishes strewn across the counters, food already crusting on the rims; his Aunt Petunia, who took one look at her sweetums face, turned to Harry and began yelling shrilly; his Uncle Vernon, who joined in, and at last through the little window above the sink: the sun setting on another day. Harry turned to the dishes with a sigh and shut off his mind, allowing the combined shouting of all three 'family' members to wash over him. _Two more weeks_.

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**Author Note: Please review! With my LOTR fic that was the ONLY thing that drove me to finish it...I can't tell you how important reviewing [good, bad and ugly] are to a writer. Tell me what you think; what you like, what you hate. Danke!  
  
**


	2. The Road to Hogwarts

**Whatever Happened******

**Chapter Two - The Road to Hogwarts******

**DISCLAIMER: All of it belongs to JKR of course!******

**AUTHOR NOTES: Thank you SO MUCH to those that reviewed. It seems that I only get reviews for the first day or so, when my fic is on the first couple pages, and then it gets lost in the masses. Alas, that I'm not famous. :) Ah well, it's enough to have 2 reviewers...you guys keep me going! Please read and review...good bad and ugly welcome.:D**

Those who insisted that the King's Cross barrier was the only way to the Hogwarts Express were lying, or dreadfully dim. There were other ways, if one had the right connections, and the Malfoy's always did. Draco had never been to King's Cross station; a _pureblood _avoided Muggle interaction at all costs, and the station was simply saturated in un-magical failures, or so Lucius had told him.   
__ __

The preferred route was through Knockturn Alley; the dank, dark and delightfully dangerous location of choice. While the average wizard child shopped and was exposed to the world of witchcraft and wizardry through Diagon Alley, the purebloods (or the respectable ones, anyway) hung about it's shadier sister alley. Ah, Draco had many fond memories of Knockturn Alley, betting among his friends on such trivial matters as who might perform the Cruciatus Curse the longest on passing rats or spiders. It was here that he had earned himself respect, here that he first dabbled in the tempting Dark Arts - without his fathers permission of course. It would not be publicly _acceptable_ for a respected man to condone such activities, but Draco knew that his father silently acknowledged them anyway.   


He had many friends in those days. Vampires and werewolves, pureblood wizards, Veela; all but Mudbloods and Muggles were accepted. One could find any object of desire, any fanciful trinket or ancient forbidden text or crippling potion. And Lucius had bought them all for Draco; any little thing his spoilt son had wished for had been instantly his, thrust into the greedy hands of the heir of Malfoy. Many things had changed in the last years.   


Knockturn Alley was no longer the (relatively) safe haven for purebloods it once had been. Dangerous sorts roamed the streets, exiles of society, neither the Dark Lords servants nor Light traitors. Murderers, thieves, forgotten men with animal ferocity glittering just below the surface of their eyes scuttled about the slimy cobblestone. Now, Draco was forbidden to wander the old paths; he had knowledge, yes, knowledge to protect himself, and more importantly, kill if need be, but despite his education, he was far from infallible.   


_Perhaps according to some,_ thought Draco sulkily, his eyes boring rebelliously into the broad back of his father. Beloved shops were strode past, no more than blurs, leaving Draco with mere glimpses of the treasures inside. Green, ruby, and silver vials stacked in windows: dragon blood, werewolf blood, _unicorn blood._ Vampire bats screeching frantically, the words '_ready for harvest_' posted on their wildly swinging cages. Hundreds of Dark Arts books, priceless and ancient, mouldering behind dingy glass windows. Things of his childhood.   


His breath coming in bursts, Draco refrained from his routine checklist of complaints and arguments for the sake of keeping up with Lucius' impossibly long strides, content to whine inwardly instead. The Malfoy's surely had one of the most extensive collections of Dark Arts objects, even among the ancient families, yet Draco was rarely exposed to the wonders and dangers of them. Lucius kept them safely behind his flaming sword, or hidden with spells far beyond Draco's present skill (though he had certainly tried). According to his father, it was not 'prudent' that Draco have that kind of knowledge ('I will not be cleaning up after you have a little accident and let something slip, Draco').   
__ __

_If you weren't so wrapped up in yourself, perhaps you'd notice that I already HAVE 'that kind of knowledge'. How do you think I entertained myself all those days you brought me here and disappeared into the Bloody Boar to do your 'business'? Surely not with a game of Exploding Snap?! Ruddy git._   
__ __

But his father kept walking all the same, his son's internal monologue un-noticed. Draco had come to understand long ago that it was enough that he stay in line; that he behave respectably. It truly made little difference if there was any real respect between them; Draco was a coward and both he had his father recognised it. _He thinks me no more than a child who delights in his fathers toys_, he thought bitterly, for worst of all, he knew he himself had carved Lucius' image of him. He had never spoken out, not in all his sixteen years, against his father; had shown little resistance to his demands; had offered no more than hidden sneers of rebellion. _In his eyes, I know nothing. _Someday, he would prove him wrong.   
__ __

'_Do_ hurry up, Draco,' Lucius called darkly over his shoulder. Draco did not bother to blame his speed on the house elf who puffed along behind him; of late, his fathers patience had worn thin, and for once, Draco was tired of the silent fighting that families such as the Malfoy's were inclined to use. They were approaching the Dram anyway.   


The Dram was Knockturn Alley's doorway to the Hogwarts Express. There was none of that dodgy walking-through-walls, the way the King's Cross route reportedly was. All you needed was the right kind of blood; pureblood, of course. If you were found...lacking, the hungry flames which rose in a towering, seemingly impenetrable wall, would burn you to ashes in mere seconds. Admittedly, it had been frightening that first time around, before first year; Lucius had strode hurriedly through the Dram, leaving Draco on the other side, staring at the white flames just inches from his face. They were hot, like his fireplace at the Manor. But Lucius' mocking voice rang out from the other side, and pinching his eyes shut, Draco had stepped through the fire, amazed to find himself unhurt, the flames behind him.   


'Your pureblood, you daft boy! Do you think I would have spent countless Galleons on you, hours of arduous lecturing, only to murder you now?' His father had said with a snort, already striding towards the train. Draco had hidden his wonder that day, schooled his face to look bored, aloof, while internally he grinned at the enormous red train and eagerly searched the faces of the other children for a glimpse of possible future friends.   


But that day seemed to be long ago, and Draco stepped through the white-hot flames with barely a flicker of his eyelids, his eyes already focused on beyond, on the train and the nearest people to insult. _10:53_.   


'Come now, Draco!' His father snipped again, keeping his voice low. He reached out his hand to grasp Draco's wrist, thrusting something into his son's palm. 'Keep this close, boy...it cost me a ridiculous amount of money so don't you dare lose it! Do you know what it is?' Draco turned the small object over in his hand. To all appearances, it was just a rock; a flat, smooth, ebony stone smattered with swirls of grey. It hardly looked expensive. Draco shook his head, awaiting the inevitable smug sneer.   


'I thought not,' Lucius said briskly, and clapped his hand on Draco's shoulder, the expected expression lighting up his face. 'Never mind then, I'll speak to you about it later. Just concentrate on maintaining a thread of dignity, Draco. The Malfoy name still matters in the wizarding world if you command it to.' And with that he smiled one of his tight-lipped smiles and brushed past, his long midnight cloak nearly hitting Draco in the face. Slipping the rock into his pocket, Draco turned to see Lucius disappearing into the alley from which they came, his blindingly blond hair finally bobbing out of sight. _I'll miss you too, _Draco scowled; but really, he didn't mind. The Malfoy's were not a family fond of snuggles and hugs, and Draco didn't care to have it any other way.   


-----------------------------------   


The Hogwarts Express was always chaotic, but to Hermione, this year it seemed especially so. The first years were rather quiet and timid - as was usual - all of them worriedly looking for empty compartments, clutching their owl or cat or toad to their chests protectively. No, it was definitely the older students, her peers, the ones who _should know better_, that were causing the ruckus. As a Gryffindor prefect, Hermione felt it her responsibility to control her classmates, so it was the bossy, hands-on-her-hips, woman-in-charge version of their friend that Ron and Harry observed as they boarded the crowded train (only moments before it sprang to life with a jolt).   


'Seamus! Stop jinxing the fifth-years! Neville...get a hold of Trevor! Parvati, stop modelling your robes in the _middle of the aisle, _people are trying to get by!_ SEAMUS STOP JINXING THOSE STUDENTS!!!_' Hair flying, wand out, face pink: Harry and Ron grinned at each other and pushed through the students; Hermione needed to be headed off, just like Mrs. Weasley, before she truly worked up her steam.   


Hermione finally caught sight of her best friends, and her frustrated face instantly changed to a smile. Jamming her wand back into her robes (any respectable student would surely have changed into theirs before boarding), she dashed towards them, first wrapping her arms around Ron, before turning to Harry. She couldn't hide the concern on her face, but she hugged him anyway, and he waved his hand vaguely.   


'I'm fine,' he lied, but he didn't have to force the smile onto his face; it had been a long time since he had seen Hermione. She nodded, aiming a we'll-talk-about-this-later look at him, and turned on her heel, pulling Ron by his un-robed sleeve.   
'The meeting has probably already started!' she snapped irritably when he hesitated; Ron threw a helpless look over his shoulder at Harry and followed her down the aisle.   


As soon as they were gone Harry heaved a sigh, the smile sliding liquidly from his face, and swung open the nearest compartment; there was a prim-looking second year girl sitting there, gazing out the window, but he sat down anyway. Her eyes darted to look at his scar, and she coughed politely and looked out the window again; Harry followed suit. From the look on his face, the girl knew well enough not to bother him.   


------------------------------   


Harry had an idea of what might be waiting to meet him the moment he arrived at Hogwarts. Dumbledore, undoubtedly, would wish to speak to him about - about Sirius, and _Voldemort_ of course, and the Plan for this year, and perhaps Occlumency and his responsibilities and _SiriusSiriusSirius._   
__ __

His grave was near Hogwarts. Not far from his parents, on a grassy little hill among countless other headstones, some carefully tended, others chipping; silently forgotten. And he would have to go up there. More than anything, he hoped fiercely that they would at least grant him the dignity of a solitary visit. He couldn't bear all of _them _seeing the way he would be, when he saw. It.__   
__ __

He had been there at the funeral of course. It had been so strange, burying a phantom body. He had stood there, at the front of them all, Lupin on one side, Hermione and Ron on the other. There had been hands all around him, warmth, voices whispering mindless things in his ear, and still he had never felt so alone. How he had wished they would all go away.   
__ __

He couldn't remember whether he had cried then or not. All he remembered was the constant burn beneath his eyelids, which he lowered to hide the tears that wobbled on the brink of his eyelashes. Blink blink blink. They would recede for a split second, only to come racing back, like little gnats buzzing stupidly about his head. And he remembered the sun, how it had beat down on them all as though it were a day just like any other.   


Certainly, they all patted his arm and looked understanding. In their hushed tones, they told him they wished they could help, that things would get better, that he wasn't alone in this.   


But they were lying.   


They didn't know. Lupin, perhaps, understood the best; Harry had seen it there in his eyes, that aching wish to reach out to him, to comfort him somehow. And Harry had violently demanded in his silent way that he go away and leave him in peace, because he could never know how much it hurt to be alone. That was a lie, too. Somewhere, the knowledge that Lupin knew better than anyone what it was like to be alone lingered, but Harry always pushed it down before it could make him guilty.   


'Well, if it isn't Saint Potter. Did all your friends finally come to their senses and run?' The drawl rudely shook Harry from his thoughts, and the girl facing him widened her eyes at the snarl forming on his face.   


'I don't see your ape-sidekicks. Did they get sick of the smell?'   


Draco Malfoy stood smirking in the doorway of the compartment, one hand lazily pulling the sliding door open and closed. Crabbe and Goyle, the two trollish students that usually shadowed him were strangely absent, but if this fact bothered Malfoy, he didn't show it.   


'Oh they'll be around here somewhere,' he said calmly, 'buying me Chocolate Frogs or some other treat to show their absolute devotion to me, I expect.' He continued to stand at the door looking unconcerned, and at last Harry stood, drawing his wand so Malfoy could see it.   


'Do you _need _something, Malfoy? Itching to see your pointy face covered in hexes all over again?' Malfoy took a step back, but his face didn't lose it's arrogant smirk.   


'You remember what I told you before school ended, Potter?' He tried his best to look menacing. 'I haven't forgotten. And don't think I'm going to take pity on you just because that stupid dog of yours went and got himse-'   


_'Silencio!'_   
__ __

Harry didn't need to see the director of the spell to know it was Hermione. Draco stood gaping at her, mouth moving like a fish, before he finally realised what she had done and pushed past her with no trace of his usual grace. Hermione appeared around the edge of the compartment door, sliding it shut behind her.   


'He never learns...' she began, but stopped at the sight of Harry's face, which was pale with a glimmer of sweat shining on his forehead. Her mouth clapped shut, and she plopped down on the seat, tugging on Harry's sleeve until he sat down stiffly beside her. His eyes were still focused wildly on the glass door.   


'Never mind him, Harry,' she said inadequately. 'He doesn't know what he's talking about.' Malfoy's insults had probably gotten to Harry least of them all in their years at Hogwarts, but it was the words, not the boy, that was causing his reaction now. Sometimes, Harry looked normal, just the way he always had - smiling and laughing - and other times, he looked like he might turn into a werewolf at any moment, sickly and pale. _He still hasn't talked about it._   
__ __

The girl across from them looked wide-eyedly from one face to the other.   
__ __

At last Harry's eyes turned from the door, but he did not acknowledge Hermione. His eyes were hooded once more, his thoughts replaying a day mere months ago, his eyes unfocused on the passing scenery.   



End file.
